and be glad in it
it’s terrible, the wreck
of a chair where i
sit, where i rise to see
in the window
sometimes, and
show myself to be
plain or temporary
– a hole in my room
otherwise there, and
useful in this pre-
sense – how i live
in it lacks rooting
& things compress
as i step on them,
floor on my frame-
less feet, tense
with the strain i impart.
at a few times this rate
i could raise a child. in
my arms he would
have me. and i won-
der how good can we
live under the clouds,
rain on the shower tiles
and the storm of being
so simple – it’s a
crazy little penance
i’ve picked, oh well.
thank you for the medal,
it’ll go on my shelf with
the shell, and my incense
thing, and i’ll cradle
it as a son, or as a
god – a noble attach-
ment, or a stable
ground
may i borrow your antonyms
one of these is
not like the others:
thread, blue
a word, simple
metal, formed
a sin, polished
i don’t know the answer.
another question:
when is a thing
severance pay?
there are a lot
of things that
could be severance pay,
i think. when is a thing
biology. when is a thing
achievement.
there are probably
many ways to say
your name, but
i have a favorite.
i won’t tell you
what it is.
there are many ways
to say hello. you can say it to
a squirrel.
i don’t know the right
way to feel jealous. though
i have taken notes.
i can’t compass the
thought that you’d
want me, even
if i think very hard.
the last time
a thing that
is not a habit:
a shirt
a word
in days
can you kick it?
emperors
and sand
tides are
a habit
the last time you fell
in with me i felt so bad
on purpose.
he says
overtime drills of making
my hips ache. chairs are meant
to keep clothes, not
these sitting webs. the strains
felt to the floor. down the roots
and spreading.
the word itself an aerosol
breaking on the curve.
my own flattened on itself.
the ass of ages, that’s
a joke for your stoned evenings.
who cares about your habits.
there’s too little to concern with
for anyone to trifle.
i’m conserving my
words until there are
things to observe.
with nothing to
obstruct
i’ll sit still.
EP
tell me a name
that breaks clean
a face crashed
around its Edge
habitual
parceled old layes
forgotten together
once a young birth
Timber evades
the Axe one day
for you to cheer
while you pace
your own Boards.
above the bay
cataloged within
those timber
stripes: the sun
and my maning eyes.
wondering
since the
soundless
walls round
any old hull
bounds our
steppe.
Would I turn
A new leaf?
It dances
With its rest.
its nice of you to fold that way
or at least if you had to choose.
perhaps for the first time
we knew what to say
about a film and
other moving things
on the bay.
idly:
a little
warmth is
perfect welcome
two days framed, for exhibit
the shit i keep busy with.
the shit we do to keep
clean. the mirror blade.
a sacred service. your
cuticles like a display.
the crickets are buzzing
in whatever evening i’ve
built up around myself.
as a defense against you.
i paint parking spots in
my head and i roll the
tip of my tongue.
a common meter times
and wears me like glasses.
the style of my incapacity.
a flag in my fingers and i
don’t want. in the spring
i feel like a sister to the
flowers. i sniff them as i
pass. like only family i
can tell when they are
lying. do you know lies.
i am joking. i tell it like a
joke that i am your
“lover,”
are you angry with me?
for breaking your medicine.
for nothing at all i fill my
lungs to be grateful. a
love like record static or
a gap that can be felt.
the new growth i bud
in the season. in these
sonorous hours. do you
know the tone. i tear
the grass to test the
wind
the stone a poem
finally with all
my births behind me
and busy lies
i have designed.
i’m not what i
scripted – or cut
for a purpose. i’m
not an urgent grief.
but here is my-
self, the pit of the
present, & the lie
to tell the truth of.
the weather of my
shape i hide it.
please
do not hide it. light
on the page with
your hand.
a haiku for each fingertip
what is dear like soap?
it gets its own little dish
i wish i were pure
i wish i were large
or pure, but i am the rut
of dustfall days –––
– only bind me
lightly, hold my printed sigh
and press me gentle
no one wanna feel
me, nobody, i am smooth
but cheap like plastic
in your dream i am
a stone in the wall, i think
i hold up your roof
i think you hold up
my sky, i feel broadly and
blue ––––––––––
i think we hold space
open, do you? i think we
feel it like rug burn
i think i like it
when i feel it split and in
your voice i echo
not hiding just waiting
of the things that
keep me alive
solitude is
the one that
knows me.
always i spit
in time with
the praise they
give great men.
but i know i want
to be the
worst of them.
give me a break i
say, but one day
or the next i will see
the hurt i deserve,
be pressed to own
the figures in some
sightful ledger.